Page 16 of Sweet Silver Bells

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

O livia hummed softly as she cradled the oversized poinsettia, gently teasing its roots apart before settling it into the soil Hunter poured into the oversized planter pot in the living room.

The haze that crept into Hunter’s mind was less and less intrusive, as if it recognized him as a friend and was no longer looking for its next victim.

He was sore from carrying multiple forty-pound planter pots and a few bags of loose soil from the car. He successfully held his breath so Olivia didn't see evidence of his lack of gym time.

You’re getting there in age. People throw their backs out doing this kind of work, Hunter.

The rich scent of earth surrounded him, mingling with the light bite of herbs coming from the mistletoe hung throughout the living room, draping as if it had a personality, determined to be elegant and dramatic.

His entire house now had her scent wafting through as if she had touched every fabric and piece of furniture.

It smelled like forest. It smelled like trees.

It smelled like her body was pressed against him.

Her body pressed so close, without rain to wash her away, and him desperate to hold on.

Hunter blushed and looked down into the fresh dirt sitting like a bowl inside the three feet of shiny porcelain pot in front of his main living room window. The bag that once held the soil lay crumpled against the front door, making a mess he would have to clean up later.

The thought of Olivia rolling around, rolling around with him, was now all he could think about.

Get a hold of yourself. It was just a kiss.

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was fate itself. Maybe it was the permission he had longed for after all these years, the permission to be free.

The heavy rain turned into hail, the light pattering on the roof suddenly violent, brazen. Olivia froze, a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and unblinking.

“I can turn poisonous,” she said, her voice hushed.

“What?” Hunter rocked back on his heel, unsure if he should laugh or be scared.

“We are being attacked, or can you not hear that as well?”

“Olivia,” Hunter breathed, realizing what was happening. “It’s hail. It’s freezing rain. Have you never seen that before?”

She seemed unsure.

“No, that’s not it,” he said. “You just haven't been under a roof for a very long time. Don’t worry, this is how it sounds?—”

“When the sky throws down ice,” she cut him off. He nodded.

“Did you say you’re poisonous?” he asked.

“If I need it. I think so. I’ve never tried it on another human.”

The hail calmed, and lazy flurries wafted down, visible from the window and backlit by the porch light.

Hunter collected himself and looked back at the beauty that stood before him, cradling her plant as if it were a baby, warmth from his fireplace curling around her like a comforting embrace, her hair drying with a frizz he had not yet seen on her.

Adorable.

“I love this,” Olivia said, pressing her fingers up from the bottom of the plant with a delighted sigh.

“Wait until we dig into those Danishes, if houseplants alone cause that serene look on your face,” Hunter said.

“It’s peaceful. The way the soil feels. It’s alive .

More alive than you, than me.” She knelt down to place the poinsettia into the pot and scooped the dirt around it.

She then brought up another handful, marveling at the way it crumbled between her fingers.

“I can feel it breathing. The roots whisper when you touch them. I almost never get to touch roots like this.”

Hunter listened but frowned. “I don’t hear them whispering.”

“That’s because you don’t listen,” she teased, flashing him a bright smile. He was getting used to that now, her smiling. He had guessed, in true goth fashion, that she would bloom only doom and gloom when he first led her out of that forest. Instead, it was starting to feel like Christmas.

Christmas.

It hadn’t felt like Christmas since Sarah was here.

Yet here Olivia was, and she accomplished it without even trying, just by being herself, unapologetically. Hunter was still scared shitless of her, as he should be, but he didn’t regret it; he didn’t regret bringing her here.

That cop may have regretted it.

Hunter’s lips quirked, but he wasn’t convinced he’d done a good enough job easing the sadness and worry that continued to creep into his head and heart. “So, what are the roots telling you?”

Olivia looked into his eyes, and he knew she saw, saw that he was damaged and hurt.

Healing wasn’t impossible, but it was a damn journey.

She didn’t say anything, though, as if that were her way of saying she understood, as if that were her way of saying, “Me too.” Instead, she closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders back, cracking her neck as she tilted her ear to her shoulder on both sides.

“That you’re terrible at potting plants. ”

Hunter barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. “That’s slander. I poured the dirt like a professional.”

Olivia looked back down to inspect their work. The bright red leaves were disheveled and looked worse for wear. They were either resistant to the new home they had been gifted or to being out of Olivia's arms, her hands prodding at their roots.

I understand.

Hunter was commiserating with plants now.

“We should put a second one in it. You didn’t buy enough planters for one per pot.”

“I’m sure some of them can be gentlemen and sleep on the couch.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows, not understanding the joke.

It was a bad joke. Of course, she didn’t understand it.

Hunter made a mental note to see if he could find jokes from the early 1900s. He liked seeing her laugh, so maybe he could make her laugh on purpose.

“Two per pot,” she confirmed, moving back to the coffee table and gently pulling another poinsettia from its plastic wrapping.

She brought it back to the window, to him, to the planter pot.

She set it, her eyes evoking love and pride, a chemist celebrating the first explosive they made in their humble home garage lab.

“You really can’t hear them?” she asked.

He couldn’t.

Of course, he couldn't. It was absurd. It was a joke. He indulged it for her because, for her, it was real. She had magic, a connection to something he had taken for granted his entire life. He hadn’t deserved to hear them. He would be ashamed to listen to what they had to say if he could.

Hunter was sure of it.